


Plus de Vin

by KitsJay



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: I still spend way too much time on ficmemes, M/M, Outside Point of View, kinkmeme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 17:05:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1355101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitsJay/pseuds/KitsJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wondered, sometimes, about their stories, but a rowdy voice would raise above the others, calling, “Mademoiselle! More wine!” and any fanciful wonderings disappeared in the hubbub of the inn’s dining room. Still, as she refilled a glass behind the bar, she watched them from the corner of her eye, searching for something, though she wasn’t quite sure what.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She had seen them before, of course, when her father had customers shouting for her attention and the latest serving girl disappeared without even a by-your-leave. She had tied the apron around her waist briskly and waded in, every bit her father’s daughter. They came in often, sometimes in uniform, sometimes in casual clothing. There was the brooding, handsome one with the eyes that coolly surveyed the room as if he were searching for someone in the wash of faces, the playful one with the easy grin and lean build, and the broad one whose hands spoke of a rough life but who was always polite to her when they called for another round. Eventually a new one joined, little more than a boy, slender with dark hair and hungry eyes. He often sat with them as if he couldn’t believe that he was there, basking in their company like a cat in a sunbeam. She wondered, sometimes, about their stories, but a rowdy voice would raise above the others, calling, “ _Mademoiselle! Plus de vin!_ ” and any fanciful wonderings disappeared in the hubbub of the inn’s dining room. Still, as she refilled a glass behind the bar, she watched them from the corner of her eye, searching for something, though she wasn’t quite sure what.


	2. The Celebration

The first time they came in together, their spirits were flung high. They drank more, laughed more, and even the brooding one managed to smile into his glass. The slender one – Aramis, she heard one address him – threw his arm around the broad one casually, leaning into him and laughing loud enough to be heard over the din of a filled room.

“ _Mademoiselle_ ,” the broad one called. “ _Plus de vin, s'il vous plaît!_ ”

She hurried over with a wine bottle and tripped over a bag someone had carelessly dropped to the side of their chair. She braced herself for contact with the floor, surprised when she found herself in the arms of a man instead. Looking up, she saw the broad one looking down at her in concern.

“Are you alright?” he asked her.

She straightened away from him, tucking her hair behind her ear. “ _Oui, monsieur. Merci._ ”

“Porthos, haven’t you saved enough damsels today?” Aramis called.

Porthos looked at her and gave her a broad wink before turning to his friend. “There’s always room for one more,” he replied gamely.

They joked together some more, and she watched them carefully as she refilled their glasses, noting the way Aramis’s hand settled possessively on Porthos’s shoulder, as if he were staking a claim.


	3. The Mourning

With the exception of the brooding one, who sometimes darted into a dark corner to drink alone – those nights, she carefully kept the glass full and her lips closed – Aramis and Porthos were light-hearted, loud and boisterous, as soldiers were wont to be. This night, however, they trudged in quietly, seeming to drag a weight behind them. The air felt heavier around her. She watched them, waiting for them to wave her over to order or to hear the familiar shout of " _Plus de vin _", and she saw Aramis bow his head, hands folded in front of him as if in prayer, as Porthos laid an arm around his shoulders and spoke gently into his ear. His shoulders did not shake, but even in the dim light provided by the candles, she could make out a glinting trail sliding down his face. She pointedly turned her back on the moment, unwilling to intrude; there was a familiarity to the scene, one that had played out when her own mother died several years ago and her father had collapsed by her bedside, gently brushing her dark curls away from her face over and over again. He did not sob or say anything to her mother's lifeless body, just brushed his palm against her brow until the priest had gently pulled him away. As a child, the silence had felt oppressive. She did not know the cause, but she recognized the symptoms. There would be no cries from that table, not tonight. Nodding to herself, she pulled down a bottle of fine port. Death deserved better communion than watered wine.__


	4. The Love Scene

A fair number of women came in on their own, seeking to line their purses through charm or their skills in bed, and experience had taught her to spot them from a quick glance. Too much rouge spread across cheekbones, lips a shade too dark for proper ladies, powder filling the creases of crow’s feet at the corners of eyes. Their voices were always an octave too husky and their laughs a little too loud to be genuine. Most had a haunted, hungry look in their eyes, like wolves stalking a herd, until they sharpened on one and moved in for the kill, culling him from his friends with a coy word and a hand drawn across a shoulder. Tonight’s was a woman she had seen before, with red hair piled high in tight ringlets atop her head, a brassy laugh, and hips that swayed when she walked.

Shaking her head at the woman’s boldness, she dunked the dishes in the sink to soak and returned to her post. The woman had found her lamb, an unlikely one, and she felt her eyebrow raise involuntarily as the woman batted at Porthos’s shoulder, laughing at something he had said. Porthos looked embarrassed and amused, while Aramis sat with his arms crossed. The expression on his face was unfamiliar and she frowned as she tried to place it. His lips were quirked in a smile, but there was something about the tightness at the corners and the brittle look in his eyes that gnawed on her.

The woman laughed again and Porthos shifted so her hand would drop away from his broad shoulder, but the woman dug her nails in, unwilling to be dislodged so easily.

She batted her eyelashes and leaned over Porthos, nearly sitting in his lap, and Aramis jumped up from the table. Porthos looked up at him in surprise.

“It’s getting late,” he said, and she heard a sharp edge in his voice that she had never heard before. “I had best be going home.”

“So soon?” Porthos asked quizzically. “Surely you can stay for one more glass of wine.”

The woman looked displeased at the suggestion, but hid it with a wide, facile smile. “Oh, please don’t leave so soon on my account.”

Aramis gave a rigid bow. “Never, my lady, but I am afraid that we have duties we must attend to tomorrow, and our captain is notoriously unforgiving of hangovers.”

With a final sweep of his hat, he left the room, and Porthos stared dumbly after him while the woman smiled victoriously. Her smile soon deserted her, however, when Porthos mumbled an excuse and hurried after Aramis, leaving the woman sitting alone at the table.

She knew that the dishes would be ready to scrub soon, and the next round of drinkers would be wandering in, but she could not resist grabbing a broom and sweeping the outside step furiously. From down the street, she could hear Aramis and Porthos arguing in harsh whispers, their voices traveling farther than they realized in the night air. She could only make out snatches, nothing that made sense, then there was a harsh noise from one, and she heard the sound of footsteps walking away at a quick pace. Silence for a moment. Then a sigh, carried in the darkness, and she saw Porthos walking past with a distracted look on his face.

“ _Bonne nuit, monsieur_ ,” she called softly after him, but received only an absent nod in return.


	5. The Fight

Her hair was fighting its way out of the many pins holding it back, her corset dug painfully into her ribcage, and her face perspired in the heat. She wiped her brow with the back of her hand. Summers in Paris were tangible, a presence that came in and lowered itself like a blanket over the city. The past few nights hadn’t even a breeze as respite from the heat, and she found herself snapping at customers who were rude when she normally would have smiled tersely and avoided them. Her father had given her several disapproving, if not sympathetic, looks, and she fought to keep her temper.

“ _Mademoiselle_!” an obnoxious voice called from a table nestled against the far wall. He was a brutish looking man with a nasal whine that clashed with his blunt features. His hands had tried to wander under her skirts every time she had passed, and only some nimble footwork perfected by years of dodging between tables and chairs had allowed her to escape. He was persistent, however, and waved his glass in the air imperiously. “ _Plus de vin, maintenant_!”

She gave him a tense, thin smile and walked over, leaning over to fill his wine glass with the cheapest bottle she could find. He was drunk enough that he had not noticed, nor would he notice when she charged him for the most expensive bottle when it came time for payment. She felt a hand slap her rear and whirled, brandishing the half-full wine bottle.

“ _Monsieur_!” she cried. “Watch your hands!”

“They do what they like, _jolie fille_ ,” the man laughed with his friends, who gave snickers of encouragement. He held them up, waggling his fingers. “And they seem to like your pretty backside!”

“Perhaps they should be taught a lesson,” a drawling voice said from behind her, and she whirled to find her soldiers, Porthos and Aramis, standing behind her. Aramis gently nudged her to the side and she went compliantly. Porthos was flexing his muscles and cracking his knuckles menacingly, while Aramis had a fake smile plastered on his face. “We would be happy to remove them from you, if they are such a bother.”

“It would be no trouble at all,” Porthos grinned, not pleasantly.

The man blanched and shook his head. “I didn't mean anything by it.”

“Of course not, _monsieur_ ,” Aramis said graciously. “I trust you will not let them wander again.”

“ _Non_ ,” the man gulped, turning his back to them and gulping down his wine.

“I apologize for that man’s behavior,” Aramis turned to her. “Are you all right?”

“ _Oui, je suis bien_ ,” she said. “ _Merci beaucoup_.”

“Of course,” Aramis said.

She started, realizing they were staring at her. “Please! Have a seat, and I’ll bring you some more wine. No charge,” she added impulsively.

“We can pay,” Porthos began, but she cut him off.

“ _Non_ , it would be my pleasure.”

As she walked away, she watched them, feeling something in her heart clench. The men who came into her father’s inn wanted sleep, drink, and women, and all of them in convenience. The man tonight was not the first who had treated her like a common prostitute, but her soldiers, they were the first besides her father to treat her like a lady.

She gave them the good wine.


	6. The Seduction

Her soldiers walked in, just the two of them tonight, Aramis and Porthos. They were in good spirits, and she found herself smiling with them, sharing in their happiness. Since their arrival, she found herself looking forward to their visits, worrying when they were gone for long periods of time, and jubilant when they returned unharmed from wherever they went on their latest mission. They had been gone for a fortnight this past time and she had found herself thinking about them at odd moments. A dish would dangle forgotten in her hand as she pictured them in a harrowing swordfight with horrible villains; a towel would lay unfolded atop a pile of laundry as Porthos dodged and Aramis parried and they ran after some criminal; the water would boil, unnoticed, in the bowl as she saw them galloping on their proud horses across a field, delivering some vital message. She chastised herself for the flights of fancy. Soldiers talked loud, but often were little more than delivery boys, having no more adventures than the stable boy who lived in the barn behind the inn.

Still, when they walked in, their elbows brushing, she found herself surreptitiously surveying them, checking for details of their latest exploit. Tonight they were unscathed and she gave a satisfied smile. There was a warm feeling in her chest, the kind her _maman_ had told her about with a soft look in her eyes, the kind she sometimes had when staring at her handsome husband.

Tonight, she would be brave. She had tossed in her bed. Both were handsome, both were kind, both were gentle and honorable, and she felt herself torn, but Aramis seemed more likely to be receptive. She had no illusions about herself: a stern, worn face, but still young enough to be smooth and milky pale, long brown hair that curled at the ends like her mother’s had, lips that were full, and eyes that were wide. A hard life had robbed her of the chance to be called beautiful, but she was attractive enough. Or so she hoped.

She served them through the night, showering extra attention on Aramis, who seemed pleased, if not confused, by her attentiveness. Boldness allowed her to brush his arm with her hand as she leaned over him and she smelled the leather and sweat from the day’s labors.

By the time the night ended, they were both pleasantly drunk, and the guests had retired upstairs to their rooms while others had stumbled out the doors to pass out in the street or make it home to their disapproving wives. She gathered her courage, feeling it beat nervous little wings against her chest, and placed a staying hand on Aramis’s arm as he put on his hat and made for the door.

“ _Monsieur_ ,” she said nervously. “If you would stay for a moment?”

Exchanging a look at Porthos, who merely raised an eyebrow before ducking out the door to give them some privacy, Aramis gave her a questioning glance. “Yes, _mademoiselle_?”

Words did not come easily to her. She lived in a world of “ _plus de vin_ ” and “ _une chambre pour la nuit_ ”. Poetry was pretty enough, but did not put food on plates, and she knew she would make a fool out of herself if she tried. So instead, she braced herself and leaned forward to press her lips against his, her breasts against his chest, and closed her eyes. There was a moment when his lips opened, then his hands closed on her upper arms and he gently pushed her back.

“ _Mademoiselle_ ,” Aramis said in a kind tone, “You are very beautiful and I would be honored to continue that moment of divinity, but I am bound to another.”

She felt her face heat with embarrassment.

“Oh,” she said faintly. “Of course. I should have – I apologize, I –”

Pushing her humiliation aside, she tried to laugh it off. “A handsome man such as yourself would naturally have a woman already. I am sorry.”

Aramis smiled. “My wonderful lady, you should never apologize for a kiss, especially one such as lovely as that.”

He picked her hand up and brushed her knuckles lightly with his lips before giving a short bow of his head and walking out the door.

She stared after him a moment, and felt a small line crack her heart. It was not much, no more than a thin scar, but it was the first lesson in love that all girls must learn. It would heal without much time, but there would always be a small pang whenever she thought of her first foolish love.


	7. The Discovery

Though she desperately wanted to plead with her father for him to serve her soldiers after that night, she was no coward, and she pretended that nothing had happened. Aramis was kinder than his usual wont, perhaps, but never pitying, and she thanked him for it. Porthos never mentioned it and she was unsure whether Aramis had not told him of what had happened, or if Porthos was too decent a man to mention it. It was unnerving, but after a few weeks, she could serve them their wine without blushing again, and she felt that small scar heal inside.

The night began to fade, leaving behind streaks of stars as it ended, and her feet pained her from scurrying to and fro from the kitchen and weaving her way through the maze of tables. The last customer stumbled outside under her watchful eye, turning around a corner and disappearing from sight. With a sigh, she began the tedious job of gathering the glasses stained with residue of the night’s sorrows and joys, wiping down the tables, and straightening the chairs. Placing a hand to her back, she winced. The only chore left to do was to take the scraps from the kitchen out to the dogs behind the barn. Hoisting the bucket up, she opened the door and was surprised to hear the low murmur of voices from outside.

She hesitated, caught between the urge to close the door and a nagging familiarity about the voices. They were her soldiers’, she realized, and the door stayed open.

“Porthos,” Aramis’s voice said in a tone she had never heard before, and she heard a groan from him.

Portho’s low chuckle drifted to her. “Ssh, quiet,” he said, and there was a rustling of clothing, then a soft sound that took a moment to place. She felt her face heating as she recognized the wet sounds of lips sliding against each other, soft panting, and a low moan.

“Please,” Aramis said, and she dared to open the door a crack further, peering out as much as she dared. From around the corner of the building, she could just make out their forms, Aramis leaning against the wall, head tilted back and neck exposed, his chest heaving. Porthos’s figure pressed against him, hands lost in shadow, but his motions unmistakable.

Aramis’s voice hitched and caught, and she started. The private moment was theirs and she felt wrong to intrude. As quietly as she could, she eased the door shut. The scraps could wait until tomorrow.

That night, as she brushed her hair back and plaited it and turned the sheets down for bed, she stared at the dark ceiling. She could have felt humiliated, she supposed, at having been turned down for a male lover, but thinking of those two figures pressed against each other, the rapturous look in their eyes, the shared glances, and the sweet, casual gestures of affection, she realized that it had been obvious. What she had taken for soldier camaraderie went much deeper.

The look in their eyes, she realized, was the same one her _maman_ had had, and she found herself smiling. She had learned her second lesson in love: it gave, but never took, and was never too selfish to deny others’ what she herself could not have.


End file.
